


In the Blood

by cat_77



Series: Bloodlines [2]
Category: Agent Carter (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Darcy Lewis is Dottie Underwood’s Granddaughter, F/M, Frustration, Language, Not Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Compliant, Violence, slight AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-30
Updated: 2017-10-30
Packaged: 2019-01-26 19:51:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12564916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cat_77/pseuds/cat_77
Summary: She wasn't her grandmother, she wasn't some leftover legacy or fancy trained assassin, and she would really appreciate it if people would get the memo on that.





	In the Blood

She was being followed. For real. The worst part was that they really sucked at it. Like, if you're going to do a job, at least make an effort.

At the next stoplight, she glanced back via her rearview mirror and tried not to roll her eyes. She pretended to pluck at an eyelash and got a good look at the idiot behind her, the idiot that had stayed behind her for nearly twenty minutes now. Young, nervous, and looked like his mother dressed him in one of his father’s old suits for the way it hung off him and the tie was looped into a messy knot. He kept glancing between her and something on his dashboard that was likely a phone to report in.

Sloppy.

It was annoying how much the guy sucked at this.

The light turned green and she caught the suddenly relieved expression on his face, the way worry turned to overconfidence in a heartbeat. Something had changed. It took her all of eight seconds to figure out what. Ten would have meant sloppiness on her own part and she did try to avoid that, unless you counted her occasional panache to rock a messy bun. A delivery truck edged up along side her, the driver staring at her Volkswagen more than the road, and she saw two other SUVs vie for a spot while another truck prepared to pull out from a parking space near the next intersection where no one was stupid enough to try to make the turn this time of day.

“You fuckers are going to try to box me in, aren't you?” she said to no one in particular. 

That simply wouldn't do at all. Bucky had promised her pasta night, and there was a bowl of fettuccine alfredo with her name on it waiting back home. She had even picked up cannoli for dessert. There was no way she was going to let these idiots keep her from a night of carb-loaded goodness.

It would take a few minutes to reach the intersection during the current horribly misnamed rush hour, she knew this from experience. She also knew there was little chance she’d make it through the light itself given the current traffic and that they likely didn't plan to make a move until then given the set up. 

She pressed the button to dial her boyfriend and checked the clip on the Glock Bucky had tucked between the seats during a recent ride. She still wasn't fond of guns, probably never would be, but knew they served a purpose. That, and the way he looked right at her when he put it there meant said purpose was one he wanted her to take seriously. The clip clicked back into place about the same time he picked up and greeted her with, “Hey doll, you on your way?”

“Yep,” she confirmed, placing the weapon within easy reach. “I just have one thing left before I head home. See you soon?”

“Me and that Riesling you like so much will be waiting,” he agreed.

They said their goodbyes and she debated if he was in on what was likely Stark’s attempt to test her. He was too casual though, and not in the forced way he tended to get if something was going on. Which meant he at least wasn't in on whatever was about to go down; not that she thought he'd voluntarily set her up, just that he would have had some tell if he was in the know of even a hint of it. She could see him curious about her skill set, or lack of one, but it just didn't ring true that he'd pull this shit with her versus flat out asking.

Which meant she gunned it. Her car was small and maneuverable for a reason, even if certain others found it a little cramped at times. It was usually just her anyway, sometimes Jane who was fricken tiny, and so it wasn't an issue. If they needed to move gear, they used the van. If they needed to move themselves, they used the car that could park damn near anywhere, even in the crappiest of parallel spots.

Some weaving, breaking, backtracking, and a lot of squealing tires later, and she had lost her spotters and even made two of them glance off of each other instead of her. She watched one of the others follow the completely wrong car that happened to be the same make, model, and color and then toddled back to her original destination, which was home anyway, peeking back every once in a while to look for stragglers.

She pulled into her assigned spot and flipped the safety on the Glock but kept it within easy reach near the top of her bag. No one made a move on her from the lot to the elevators, but she glared at the security unfortunate enough to be on call when she passed. “No cannoli for you,” she told one guy out of spite. He pouted playfully and pushed the button that unlocked the secure elevators and likely called the others off. For now, at least.

By the time she reached her door, the gun was tucked safely out of the way and the bag from the bakery front and center. She was still on edge though, upset that anyone was dumb enough to try something like this. Upset that she had apparently not proved herself enough yet, despite the previous reassurances during the debacle with Alex. Said debacle was only a few weeks prior, but there had been no hint of subterfuge, and it pissed her off that either they were that good or she had missed it outright because she believed in that pesky farce of a thing called friendship. She had been warned that it was a weakness and she did so hate it when others were right. Especially when that other was her mother.

She dropped both bags on the kitchen counter and set about freeing the box of cannoli to place in the fridge for later. She turned to find Bucky leaning against the door jamb, an expectant look on his face when he asked, “So, what happened?”

“What do you mean?” she asked. The damn bag got caught on the corner and she yanked it free with perhaps just a little too much force. A glance showed the dessert was fine, and also that Barnes was not going to buy into the nothing being wrong act.

“Somehow, I doubt you called to check on the pasta,” he said drily. He nodded towards the fridge and added, “Who pissed you off enough that you're disrespecting Mama Fraternelli’s finest?”

She huffed, and then she sighed because she really did doubt that he was in on anything, about as much as she doubted he would let the subject drop. “Some idiot followed me. Not sure who, but they didn't last long.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You take them out?” he asked with far too much casualness. 

“And risk having to do that much paperwork on pasta night?” she countered. She knew what he was asking though. It would have been incredibly easy to take the idiots down and either leave no trace or frame it like an accident. Hell, she had dealt with worse a decade ago and her mother’s only response had been to chide her for letting the issue linger instead of moving on. Of course she had caught her mother making sure the job truly was done later that same night, but that was neither here nor there at the moment.

“So, done then?” 

Now it was her turn to nod. “I'll put out some feelers in the morning. I don't think anyone here is at risk - they got nowhere near the tower and didn't seem like they wanted to. We should be good for the night.” She didn't add that they were likely good because the wannabe assailants probably patrolled from the tower itself because she really did not need to bring the night down quite that much. Old animosities could wait until she had actual evidence to come into play.

Bucky was, as expected, not fully convinced. A compromise was made where she set up a preliminary search while he dished out the meal and poured the wine. He even pretended not to notice her include certain inhabitants of the tower and she pretended not to notice he kept an extra blade or three close for the night.

The night itself was uneventful. They ate pasta, they drank wine, and they did lewd things with the cannoli that led to doing lewd things without the cannoli. In the morning, she checked on her search and found precisely zilch, which just meant she was going to rerun it away from any hint of Stark’s fancy AI knowing about it.

After four days, there was still nothing. She reluctantly admitted that she might have overreacted, even though something still felt off. Neither her mother nor Alex found anything of worth though, so she stopped carrying the Glock and tucked it back where Bucky had originally placed it between the seats.

Of course, returning from the garage she had to run into Natasha, and she meant that damn near literally. She resisted the urge to kick the shadow that turned into a world famous hero/assassin, but not quickly enough as the redhead smirked in amusement. “You seem on edge, malen’kaya tochka, is something wrong?”

She rolled her eyes at the nickname. Ever since her lineage was made known, Natasha had taken to calling her “little dot” in Russian, occasionally just shortening it to tochka because she and her partner in crime Barton found it hilarious. She honestly wasn't sure which of the myriad of meanings they meant to imply; she hoped it was either the bullseye one or the temper one, but also knew there was a very good chance that they were referencing the red light district for shits and giggles. Natasha clearly meant no actual harm by it, defending any ill will by others out of some sort of strange sisterly bond she seemed to want to encourage, but it was annoying all the same.

“I have a notorious assassin-spy-thingy trying to jump me in dimly lit hallways, why ever would I be on edge?” she retorted. She started to storm off, but was in no way surprised when she was followed.

“Well, at least you're not packing anymore,” her newfound buddy commented wryly, keeping pace easily enough. “Whatever threat must have passed. Is there a reason you didn't call us?”

“Maybe it was just a self-test,” she hedged. Then, because she knew Natasha would offer to test her more soundly than that, she added, “Or maybe I was being chased by ghosts of my grandmother’s past, of which I had to dispose post-haste. I wouldn't eat the linguini from the cafeteria any time soon.”

That earned her a laugh. The kitchen was good at many things, but the linguini wasn't one of them. “You'll let us know if you do actually need help, right?”

“Probably not,” she admitted.

Natasha shrugged as if that was to be expected. “Then don't be surprised if you find more assassins in dark hallways from time to time.”

“It is a popular hangout,” she agreed, followed by, “Hi, Clint. She beat you to it again.”

Barton stepped out of the shadows with a pout. “Red Room Runaways, taking all my fun away,” he grumbled good naturedly. 

She would have thought that would be that, but of course it wasn't. Literally the next day, Jane begged off early because she had a date with Thor. It's not like she had a lot to prepare for, really. She could wear a burlap sack and Big and Burly would still make moon eyes at her. Besides, nine times out of ten Jane chose one of three slightly frumpy dresses and coordinating tights anyway. But what said date meant was that Darcy actually had some free time for a change - Jane away, Bucky out doing Bucky things, and an empty gym that very few people had access to.

It wasn't that she didn't workout on the semi-regular, but rarely could she have the place to herself and let loose with more than a treadmill or maybe a medicine ball. The place was empty though, and she eyed the padded obstacle course with speculation. She opted for privacy mode, which told others she called dibs, and then piped her own music in via the speakers with perhaps a little more volume than standard. A little stretching, and she had at it, jumping, punching, flipping, and reminding herself that she had muscles that she really needed to get more use out of because, damn, did they not want to move in the ways they did only a few years prior.

About an hour in, there was a change to the air, and she meant that on a physical level. The hallway was always cooler than the gym, and a breeze floated by that warned her she was no longer alone. She silently cursed the thrumming bass as she hadn't heard a damn thing and there were far too many places to hide in her current location. She worked her way back towards the more open section of the gym, entire body on high alert. A turn, a pivot, and she damn near punched Natasha in the nose save for the fact the other woman’s instincts were insanely honed and all she did was lean a little to the left.

Natasha simply raised an eyebrow and leaned back with her standard perfect poise. “Others have died for such infractions, malen’kaya tochka, unless you wish to spar?”

Darcy rolled her eyes. This was not the first time she had been asked, and would probably not be the last. “Against you? There is no way I can compete. I not only know my limitations, but own them.”

“Maybe you need to expand those limitations,” Natasha pretended to muse.

“Maybe I need to have all my bones actually in the right number of working pieces,” Darcy shot back.

She started to turn to gather her towel and water bottle, but the hairs on the base of her neck stood on edge right about the same time she heard, “Maybe it is not a choice.”

That was the only warning she got before a fist came sailing at her. She moved to the right but Natasha's foot came in from the left and nailed her right in the ribs. “Ouch,” she complained, taking a second to catch her breath.

A second was all she was granted before Natasha moved again. “You're still standing. Odd,” she commented even as her body was in motion.

Darcy weaved and wobbled and had her ass hit the floor only for Nat to give her just enough time to clamber back up to knock her down again. It was careful and precise and would leave no lasting damage beyond maybe a handful of bruises. “You're better than me, we've already established this,” Darcy complained while she dodged yet another volley.

“I wouldn't know as you have made no move to attack. You barely defend yourself,” Natasha spat with distain. “Perhaps the blood does run thin in your family. It surely does not run red.”

And for some reason, that's what broke her. She was sick and tired of being seen as a legacy and not as a person. She wasn't her mother and she damn well wasn't her grandmother; she would never have their skill set and was lucky to have a fraction of their reflexes. She did, however, have both what training they had shared with her and a hell of a lot of attitude and decided maybe it was time for it not to go to waste. Natasha wanted to see what she was made of? Bring it.

She squared her shoulders and watched the sneer on their other woman's face turn to delight. Her first move was blocked, as was her second, and her third landed her on her ass again but she at least made contact. She used a kip up to right herself and swept her foot under a slightly less than solid stance and was rewarded with the slightest of wobbles as Natasha recovered. Attack, parry, defend, roll. She still wasn't as fast or graceful, but she was fueled by quite a lot of anger that had pent up over the last few days and she let that run free.

She managed to knock Nat back precisely once before the infamous Black Widow went in for her signature move. Thighs locked around her shoulders and neck in a way that was surprisingly not nearly as sexy as she had imagined. Either was the way she twisted to try to take them both down at once. She hit the mat, but remembered her grandmother's advice of “if you can't fight well, fight dirty” and took advantage of the Lycra-covered flesh so close to her mouth and chomped down.

It was enough to slightly startle the usually unflappable Natasha, and she took advantage of the fact to push her off enough right herself. Before round two could begin, she sneered, “Are we done now? Have you had your little fun? You wanted a test, and you got one. I'm not you, I won't be you, I don't want to be you. Move on and let me live my damned life without yet another check of my abilities or lack thereof.”

She grabbed her discarded water bottle and towel and stormed towards the main entrance, taking a little pleasure in the way her opponent’s eyes widened just the slightest bit at the outburst. Of course, her next opponent lay in wait because no one could just leave her the fuck alone anymore.

Clint pushed himself away from the wall he had been reclined again and reached for her as she passed. He started to chide her and she knew the lecture that was coming about never letting her guard down and how they would decide when she was done and not her because she had heard it a thousand times before, just usually in a familial voice. But she was tired and annoyed and had simply had enough at that point. She jabbed the bottle against his solar plexus and then wrapped her towel around the wrist of his outstretched arm, twisted and yanked while he was slightly doubled over from the impact. A little maneuvering later, and his cheek was pressed up against the wall, arm bent back at a semi-unnatural angle while she hissed in his ear, “Done!”

She knew he could have gotten out of the hold. It would have been uncomfortable and awkward, but he definitely had the training and upper body strength to make short work of her little temper tantrum. Instead, he tapped against the plaster with his free hand and groaned out, “Relent.”

She released him, prepared for it to be a trick even as she shook out her towel to either use again or toss in the laundry bin as she passed into the locker room. She made no move towards the discarded water bottle, not wanting to risk the exposure. Instead, she watched as he made a show of shaking out his arm, eyeing her with a furrow between his brows. “Bad day, D?”

“Bad week, asshole, but I'm sure you know nothing about that,” she huffed. She turned to look at the two super assassins, knowing they could take her then and there and barely be out of breath from the effort. Natasha was rubbing at the wet spot on her thigh that was hopefully just spittle, and Clint was rubbing at his rotator cuff like he had actually felt what she just pulled. “No more tests, no more trials, no more surprise ‘training opportunities’ or any of that shit. I am Darcy Lewis, intern extraordinaire and sometimes protector of the awesomeness that is Dr. Jane Foster, not some secret heir to Dottie Underwood’s legacy. I just want to live my damn life.”

“No tests, not from us and not without your agreement beforehand,” Clint promised easily.

“You have my word, malen’kaya tochka,” Natasha agreed. She didn't do anything like offer her hand out to shake on it, which was fine because Darcy wasn't stupid enough to take it anyway.

She turned back towards the door to find yet another presence because apparently privacy protocols were shit. Well, that, or everyone else outranked her enough that they overrode them with no problem. It was Bucky though, and his features were set in a definite frown as he looked between his two teammates and his girlfriend. “You okay, doll?” he asked. There was an edge to his tone, but she could quite place if he was annoyed or concerned or something altogether else given her own current mood clouding her judgement.

“I'm hot, sweaty, and pissed off, and you?” she countered with sugary sweetness and a glare.

He pulled her close and ignored the protest that sweaty equaled icky to wrap his arms around her and whisper, “So turned on right now.”

She smacked him on the arm and rolled her eyes. “Dork,” she said without heat. She pulled away and winced when she saw his clean shirt now had wet spots from where he had come in contact with her rather drenched self. “Sorry?” 

“Don't be,” he told her. He didn't fully let go of her when he accepted the water bottle from Clint. He took both that and her towel from her and waggled his eyebrows when he offered, “Shower?”

“You going to wash my hair?” she baited.

“I'll wash more than that,” he grinned with a leer. There was still a tightness around his eyes, but it was fading. Eventually she'd have to ask him just how much he saw and deal with the consequences.

“Get a room!” Clint shouted from where he was now quickly making his way across the gym.

“I have it on good authority that Stark’s personal locker room has a locking door and multiple detachable shower heads,” Natasha chimed in. She kept her hand over the spot on her thigh as though it had personally offended her.

Bucky dragged her away before she could apologize, but not to Stark’s decked out and possibly slightly skeezy personal locker room. They made it to the elevators before his lips were on hers, and even made it all the way back to his rooms before any clothing was removed. He proved that he was not a liar and she proved that she still thought he was ridiculous and it was nice to have a bit of normal after the weirdness of the past few days.

She assumed that would be that. There were no more lurking assassins, no tails of the vehicle or security types, and no mention of her ineptitude in holding off Natasha. That last bit was fine by her actually, as she was a fricken intern with some extra training and didn't pull this bullshit for a living. It was nice to know the people who were supposed to save their asses were willing and capable, and she left it at that.

It was a lunch run nearly a full week later when the shit hit the fan. She wanted tacos and Jane wanted tamales and, pleasantly enough, both could be obtained from a place that tended to throw in free churros if she promised to bring back another menu for the front desk at the tower.

She blamed the fact that everything smelled amazing as the reason why she was forced to dip into the bag and snag a bite as she walked the three blocks back. She blamed the fact that her mouth was full of doughy cinnamon fried goodness for the reason why she was distracted enough not to realize she was screwed until there was a sharp pain in her neck. She stumbled to the left just as a guy she knew she had never met wrapped an arm around her and guided her the rest of the way into a convenient alleyway where another two guys and a sedan waited for her.

She shrugged the guy off and managed a handful of steps before she crashed to her knees. She ignored the smashed styrofoam containers of deliciousness to pluck a tiny little dart away from her skin and offer a concise, “Well, fuck.” 

Her eyelids grew heavy long before the boot steps got close, and she wasn't sure if she was surprised or pleased that they had used the good stuff on her.

It was the jarring rut of what was probably a pothole that woke her an indeterminate time later. She blinked, saw that she was still screwed, and quickly faked being out again, thankful that she hadn't been caught out so easily. The idiots were talking though, pleased with themselves and clearly distracted. She used the cover of the next rut to angle her head slightly, top of her temple pressed against what was probably glass, and looked through her eyelashes at just what fresh hell awaited her.

She was in a vehicle and logic dictated it was the sedan from earlier unless they had already switched that out. The shape and interior seemed to confirm at least that. Two of the idiots were up front having a rousing discussion on how awesome they were or some shit like that, and one was in back with her. That moron was leaning forward to be heard as he chimed in, weapon across his lap and pointed in her direction, one hand lightly steadying the barrel, but not in a ready position.

They turned a corner and she flexed her wrists to feel the weight of whatever bound her so she could try to figure out how to undo them. Zip ties. Not cuffs that she could pick, but stupid plastic that would undoubtedly leave a mark when she escaped and had to come up with a cover story for her absence.

An absence of unknown length, really. She could normally estimate how long she had been out, but the windows were tinted and there were rough shadows that could be buildings or a large grouping of trees, so it was hard to get a read on the sun to horizon ratio and her internal clock was a little haywire from whatever they had given her. 

So, to summarize: drugged and in an enemy vehicle headed to parts unknown, tied in a way that she would give them a clue of what she was doing before she was actually free, and still really fricken hungry.

It was the next bump that made her almost give the game away. There was no way they could be that stupid. Unless they were Hydra, which was a possibility given the style of weaponry and dress, not to mention that they had access to the stuff that actually worked on her.

It was an older model Chrysler, old enough that the doors did not automatically lock upon acceleration, a fact the idiots apparently were not used to. Borrowed car then, or one jacked for this purpose and the hopes of blending in with whatever traffic they expected. Either way, the door across from her was unlocked, which meant there was a chance of unlocking her own. 

The dumbasses hadn't even figured out child safety locks. Her chances of successful escape just skyrocketed. Given that they hadn't bothered tying her legs, she was in the fricken stratosphere. 

She waited another five minutes for them to have an animated discussion about which Avenger they hated the most and why, and then used their distraction to make a move that would either help her or get her beat. She estimated their speed to be within the limit for a semi-populated/edge of town area as so not to draw attention, and then estimated the road rash to suck big time and really wished she had worn jeans.

She slowly drew in a breath, and then went for it the moment they slightly decelerated. Lock popped, door open, baddie kicked hard enough he hopefully dropped his gun, she hit the pavement with a ton of pain and the echoes of profanity battling the rushing in her ears. No time for that though as she needed to find cover, and fast. Having no idea what she was facing made that less than ideal, but she opened her eyes, blinked the pain away, and chose a direction. 

She had damn near landed in a ditch beside a copse of trees, so she went with the obvious. She rolled downwards even as she heard the screech of tires, getting mud and leaves on her once awesome skirt and sweater combo, but helping her blend in more in the process. To her right, the trees thinned quickly to reveal some rough brick buildings and a hell of a lot of barren concrete. To her left was the steep hill to the road, but also a glint of something promising.

Three kids of ages between ten and twelve were screwing around with what looked to be a hank of chain length fence. Two of the three had officially licensed Avengers shirts with the logos all cracked and worn, and the third had a ripoff one with a badly drawn Barton holding a bow the wrong way. The morons that had taken her had been just bright enough to steal her bag, but hadn't removed her employee ID from where it was clipped to her waistband and half hidden under her sweater, tiny little Sharpied lightning bolts decorating her name. She waved that at the urchins and promised, “Help me and you can turn this in for autographs.”

The kids yanked the weed-covered fence back to reveal a drainage tunnel that ran under the road. She slipped through while one explained, “It’s totally busted on the other side.” 

The one with the Hawkeye shirt whispered, “Do you need help with- never mind,” stopping himself when she paused to break free of the stupid zip ties. Instead he turned to his friends and enthused, “That was bad ass.”

She took off through the tunnel, sparing a quick glance behind her to see if the kids would follow or give her away. Instead, she found them piling even more weeds and branches over the opening and wondered if she could talk Stark into fronting their college expenses while also hoping the Hydra idiots didn't hurt them. When she heard them talk about placing false trails like in the movies before heading home, she decided she'd hack into a Hydra account and front them the money herself.

The other side of the tunnel swung open just like they promised and revealed a fair deal more of wooded area. She took off into the thick of it as silently as she could, internalizing all the cursing when sharp branches scratched across her already scraped up legs. Her tights were so beyond toast, which sucked as she really liked that pair.

Nearly an hour later found her with a scrap of her skirt wrapped around one wrist that decided to bleed from the ties and the possibility of damned sticks for weapons since she had stupidly forgone her Docs which meant no blades hidden within. She was never wearing crepe soles again. Ever. The flats had looked adorable with her skirt, but were shit for hiding things and really did not hold up to an impromptu hiking trip over standardly sucky terrain. Honestly, the way one was threatening to tear had her composing a sharply worded letter in her mind to the manufacturers.

She paused to take stock of her situation one more time. Torn and filthy, bruised and limping, a garrote hidden with her underwire and a single switchblade that the idiots hadn't found at her waistband. There had been better days in her life.

She knew she couldn't keep circling the same bit of trees forever, and climbing one would just make her a sitting duck. It was time to rejoin society, even if that society was just the broken down housing project on the far side of the wooded lot she found herself in. Some buildings looked actually lived in, but one was all nice and boarded up and abandoned save for the junkies and gutter punks that would either let her blend in or actively hide her if she could get them what they wanted.

The brief run across the stretch of scruff between the house and the woods couldn't be avoided, but it could be made as quickly as possible and hopefully out of view of the street on the other side that seemed to have the same car damn near pacing back and forth, or at least a couple of similar models. It would have been quicker if her legs weren't scraped to hell and gone and her ankle was actually willing to take her weight, but she made do. Across, over, in, and a guy who could use a shower even more than she could closed the plywood behind her.

“Some suits pretending to be Feds are hiding out on the second floor,” he warned. “Got here fifteen ago, don't know how setup they are yet.”

“Shit,” she muttered. Louder, she said, “Awesome, thanks for the warning.”

“They didn't even offer anything, just stormed in. Fuck ‘em,” he shrugged.

She patted herself down even as she knew she had nothing to give him. She took out the cheap pair of hoops and held them out to him. “All I got, sorry.”

He looked her over appraisingly, but made no comment other than, “Still better than what they offered. Basement connects with freedom, kinda. You’ll see what I mean. Mom next door is a junkie but keeps the fridge stocked for her kids.”

“You think I should go there?” she guessed.

“Honey, I think you should go to a hospital or maybe the cops and that’s coming from me,” the guy snorted. He started leading her down a dingy hallway with a set of stairs that led in either direction. Several other squatters were already sneaking towards various bolt holes and it would be easy enough to blend in, if the goons didn't have someone checking on the other side. “Figure you don't want anything official and you're probably not dumb enough to go out the front that they came in from,” he continued.

She stepped over some paraphernalia and watched the way his eyes darted to the shadows, down the stairs, to the closed doors of supposedly abandoned apartments - pretty much anywhere but her. “No, but I’m apparently dumb enough to almost let you lead me into a trap,” she said before she grabbed his head and cracked it against the bannister.

He made a feeble grab on his way down, and defended his actions with, “Even twenty was better than those cheap ass earrings.”

She agreed, but didn't need him to know that. A kick and he was out of commission, but she could already hear the footsteps racing up the stairs from the basement where she would have been all cornered and contained nicely to be grabbed. She was still out of weapons save for the obvious, so she grabbed some of the discarded syringes and made due with the vague hope Hydra had decent health insurance before she remembered she didn't care. She stabbed the first guy to make it near the top step in the neck and then kicked him into the second, taking note that only one was from the car, which meant they had brought in reinforcements already.

The second guy recovered faster than the first, so she chucked one of the syringes down at him, pleased to watch it hit its mark, though she knew it would likely barely slow him down. A glance showed that junkie guy had latched the plywood as another way to box her in, and one of his buddies now stood at the opposite end of the hallway. She didn't have time to figure out if he was friend or foe but kind of figured he was foe when he stepped aside to let the man with the gun have a shot at her, and she meant that literally. She tossed another syringe at him, surprised it even came close given the distance and was really just happy it made him flinch enough to give her an opening. 

They wanted her down, so she headed up. She raced as much as she could up the creaky steps to a seriously dilapidated second floor. There was both a chair and an end table within somewhat easy reach, and so she slid those down the staircase at anyone dumb enough to follow. There was one agent up there, gun at the ready. He shot, she ducked, and then she charged because she didn't know what else to do. A brief tussle later, and he was unconscious and she finally had a weapon worth keeping.

Or so she thought. One attempt at the figure trying to climb over her mini-blockade showed her it was a Hydra standard bio-encrypted thing for which her bios were not encrypted. Also, that it was only tranqs and not standard ammunition. She still wasn't going to hand over a loaded weapon to the enemy by tossing it directly at them, so placed the unconscious guy’s finger on the trigger, let off a shot that way, and then dropped it down a hole in the floorboards to bounce off traitor guy’s head.

The shot drew another agent out of hiding, and she used her tiny little blade on him, grabbing it back because, unlike them, she wasn't stupid. That seemed to be the totality of who was lurking on that floor, and she darted from one end to the other checking doors and looking for an escape. Her answer ended up being the window at the end of the hallway which matched the doorway the second idiot had blocked on the lower level. There was a covered porch of dubious stability, and she climbed out onto the roof of it so that she only had to manage one story instead of two.

The roof and the drop left her exposed, and the agents roaming the street finally caught on to the fact shit was going down inside the hovel. It wasn't like she really had any places left to hide, so she ducked down and took off to what she hoped was back towards the main part of the city. She couldn't tell if the gunshots that ricocheted off of anything and everything nearby were a sign that they still wanted her alive, or that Hydra goons really needed to practice, possibly with the broad side of a barn. What she could tell was that they were closing in, and a lot faster than she would prefer, bonus that she no longer could be certain if they were still going with tranqs or had moved on to the real thing - it's not like she was going to stop and check.

There was another shot, and the gurgled gasp that answered it told her it had come from the direction where she was headed. She dared to raise her head at yet another noise, this one the growl and screech of a vehicle of some sort, and was not ashamed to admit that she let out a rather relieved, “Oh, thank fuck,” at what she saw.

Riding in on a damned motorcycle like a damned knight in pitch black armor was her damned boyfriend, pausing in his potshots only long enough to squeal to a semi-stop about a hundred paces away from her current location, stopped only by the curb and the need to aim again.

She ran those hundred paces faster than she had any right to given her current condition. She climbed up behind him and couldn't care less about the state of her skirt while she straddled the seat and took the briefest moment’s comfort in his familiar heat before patting him down for a secondary or possibly tertiary weapon.

He started to peel away and the goons finally got over their shock that the damned Winter Soldier had just rained on their parade and started wasting ammo in earnest once again. She aimed and fired and figured she’d at least distract them while he drove with extra bonus points if she managed to hit any of them. Considering he was still shooting as well, it was really hard to tell if she had tagged any or if they were all him. She was betting on him, but still called dibs on the one guy on the stairs as well as him requiring her to schedule time in Stark’s fancy range.

“Hold on,” he warned after a other round of shots of the non-fun, non-alcoholic kind. He stopped firing for a moment and laid on the speed. She wrapped her arms around him, gun and all, making sure her finger was nowhere near the trigger for reasons of not being a dumbass.

They stayed that way for a while, him weaving in and out and breaking several laws and her tucked around him, cheek pressed up against the leather and kevlar she knew so well. She felt more than heard his rumble as he spoke to whoever must have been on the other end of what was clearly a comm. He said he had her, that the assholes were still in pursuit, and that backup may be required. After that, she really was not a hundred percent positive what happened as suddenly there was the sound of multiple engines and multiple shots, but her gun was nearly empty and his hands were now on the grips.

It took her a stupidly long time to realize that they were no longer moving. Really, it was the hum and vibration of the bike cutting out all together that did it. She reluctantly removed her cheek from her warm and deadly pillow and dared to glance at the chaos that surrounded them.

And it was chaos, but of the organized Avengers kind. There was damned near a wall of SUVs - okay, like four, but whatever - in a semicircle around them, a fricken corner store on the other side of them, and a handful of Hydra agents with their hands in the air all surrender-like. It was kind of surreal, as was the way she could see that Bucky had turned halfway around and that his lips were moving, but she had no idea what he had just said.

She concentrated, and tried not to roll her eyes when she got, “You back with me, doll?” The corner of his lips lifted in a hint of amused understanding, but there was still far too much worry in his eyes when he asked, “Are you hurt?”

She raised an eyebrow at him because the answer was fairly obvious, and offered a dry, “Surprisingly that happens when you throw yourself out of a moving vehicle in an adorable yet work appropriate outfit.”

“How bad?” he asked, and she had a feeling he probably knew that answer better than she did at that point, but was willing to let her lie just to rat her out later.

“Scrapes mostly, don't think anything is actually broken though my leg is beginning to hurt like fuck,” she admitted so that he'd have something to concentrate on other than the fact she was still armed and still trying her damnedest to wrap herself around him again.

It didn't work, of course. He slowly pried her arm away, the one with the hand that held the gun to add insult to literal injury. “Thought you didn't like these?” he teased.

He was totally going to wrench it from her fingers, so she made sure the safety was back on and then clutched it to her chest like a teddy bear. “Starting to rethink that stance. Also, I stole it from you fair and square.”

“I'll get you your own,” he promised, palm now out to accept it instead. “I'll even make sure it's purple if you want.”

She shook her head even as she finally handed it over knowing it was not actually worth the fight. “Black blends better and I'm still not the biggest fan. Now, a set of knives, butterfly and otherwise, with custom tinted blades? I'm willing to accept those if you're in a giving mood.”

“They gonna match the switch you're hiding from me?” he asked. He had tucked the gun back to its usual place and offered out his hand again, placing it lightly atop her own in a gesture of multiple types of support.

This time she shook her head far more vehemently. “Mom gave me that one, made it in the style of the one her mom gave her. Silver, not purple. I think she'd have an aneurysm if I went for something so easily traced, though Granma would probably be proud I finally got some signature moves.”

“I would never steal a family heirloom,” he promised. “But I will keep it safe while they cart you off to the docs. You look like shit, darling. I hurt looking at you.”

“They ruined my favorite pair of tights,” she agreed. She didn't like the thought of being carried off to treatment, but had the feeling she could talk her way into Stark Medical versus a general hospital with minimal fuss. She would play the sympathy angle, maybe the security, and he'd go for it easily enough. Her stomach chose that moment to gurgle and she looked up sheepishly. “Can we get a burger on the way? Maybe a couple? I had a crave for some tacos, but I think I've graduated to full on double patty goodness after this crap.”

“Your knee is swelling to twice its size, doll,” he pointed out. “I don't think a pit stop is in the cards.” He lifted her up and off the bike as though she couldn't manage that on her own, and then steadied her because of course he was right about the whole lack of being in prime condition thing. Her knee had pretty much given up the ghost, barely holding her now that she didn't need it for running across uneven pavement, and her ankle throbbed merrily along with it.

Movement to her right caught her attention and his gun was back in her hand and an opportunistic Hydra goon clutched his thigh as his own weapon clattered to the pavement all in the expanse of a breath.

Bucky had his own Sig at the ready, body wrapped up and over hers as he took her down to a low and painful crouch. “How in the hell did he-” he started, but was cut off when the twirling frisbee of freedom sailed by and took out another asshole. He quickly corrected himself to, “How in the hell did _they_ get past the barricade?”

“Stay down and I’ll figure that out,” Steve said as he zipped on by.

“Because we’re not exposed here at all,” Darcy muttered, earning her a snort from her human shield. “Also, totally cannot keep my leg like this for long. Ouch is an understatement.”

That was the completely wrong thing to say. Bucky’s response was near instantaneous and he physically picked her up all damsel in distress style and carried her over to the safety of the SUVs. Bonus of all weight being off of her leg, but detriment of the massive embarrassment factor. If this was recorded, Alex was never going to let her live it down.

“Are we done with the thrilling heroics yet?” she asked with a whine. She knew she was whining, owned it even. After the day she had, she had earned it.

“You tell me, Little Miss I’m-Going-to-Kneecap-Someone-for-Aiming-at-my-Boyfriend,” Clint replied. He had appeared out of literal thin air, which she took to mean he had been in one of the cars and had jumped at the chance to surprise her.

“I didn't kneecap him,” she protested.

“You hit his thigh, close enough,” Clint shrugged as though details were unimportant. “Considering you are missing your glasses and have half of Yonkers in your eyes, we’ll notch up the credit a little.”

“Enough to earn me a burger?” she wheedled. She hurt. A lot. But that wasn't going to change anytime soon. The only thing she could guaranteed take care of was her stomach, the rest was beyond her control. She was seriously debating just grabbing something from the corner store at this point; she was fairly certain someone would front her the cash.

“Burger, fries, and a shake with one of those refill cups on the side,” Barton agreed after a muttered comparison to his usual partner in crime.

Bucky had to be the voice of reason though, and chided, “Darce, you need a doctor.”

“Hungry!” she insisted. “I was going for lunch when everything went to hell and that was hours ago. My blood sugar level has to be at my feet by this point.” If nothing else, the food would pad her stomach against the pain meds she would be taking. Whether the doc prescribed them or she hit her personal stash didn't matter. She wanted food. She wanted a shower. She wanted drugged oblivion for at least a few hours. It really shouldn't be that much to ask for.

A verbal compromise was reached before Steve returned with verification that the goons were all either caught or in the wind. She got her food and got to shove as much of it as possible in her face while the kind interns at Stark Medical picked asphalt out of her skin. They did a rough pass of her hands to make them semi-usable and then moved on to her legs while she ate. All in all, it was deemed not the worst compromise ever struck, though the only one made with what the medical team thought of as a civilian intern assigned solely away from fieldwork. She had a feeling that designation might change in their minds soon enough though.

Belly full, IV of a Stark Special of pain meds and antibiotics to kill whatever she had likely gotten into, right leg wrapped up tight with her left one covered in intermittent gauze, she flopped back against the pillows and resisted the urge to fiddle with anything. The only options were the medical stuff or the blade Bucky had given back to her after she was changed into scrubs, and she figured either would freak out the nurses who were already giving her the stinkeye and checking her healing ratios far too closely. She needed to sleep, she knew this. She also knew she was still far too wound up to get there, even with the chemicals being pumped into her. It was kind of disappointing and totally put a damper on her original plans. There was no way they were letting her go until they saw her unconscious for a while though, that much was pretty clear.

“Go to sleep, Darcy,” Jane said from the doorway. 

“Can’t,” she admitted.

Jane looked at her consideringly before she asked, “Destroyer levels or Evil Elves levels?” 

Neither of them had slept well after either, eventually just staying up and crunching the numbers of the literal reams of data. They had to do it all over again once sober, but it had been enough to let them both wind down and get in a good eight hours before reality hit again. Her mother had always scolded her that she needed to train herself to rest and gather her strength while she could, but she simply was not wired that way no matter how hard she tried to force the issue.

“There's been no interstellar phenomena large enough to warrant a breakdown large enough to occupy our brains for that long,” she pointed out. It was entirely possible there was one while she was on her little adventure, but she was fairly certain someone would have mentioned it before now.

“True, so let's breakdown your sucky day and see if we can figure out why and how it happened. If we can record it, maybe it will even count as a debrief and you won't have to go over it again,” Jane suggested.

“Fairly certain I'll still have to give something official,” Darcy hedged. A glance to where Bucky was silently watching the exchange from a chair at her bedside confirmed that.

“I'll initiate Barton Protocol,” Natasha chimed in from the hallway as if that made any sort of sense. As if knowing her vagueness was less than helpful, she stuck her head in fully to explain, “You tell me what happened, I submit it as deposition claiming you were too injured to type it up, you sign off on it, and we go on our merry way.”

“And you'd do this because…” she prompted.

“Because I want you to admit this thing was brewing for more than just today,” Natasha replied blithely.

Both Bucky and Jane narrowed their eyes at her and she resisted the urge to flip Natasha off based on the knowledge she would kick her ass, injured or not, for doing so. Natasha simply beamed, knowing she had her.

Which is how she ended up telling her tale of woe. Bucky was less than pleased that she hadn't told him the whole story about the car chase thing, but Natasha was semi-reasonable about it. Both verified that no, it hadn't been a Stark test or any such nonsense, and she felt kind of silly for even considering that at the time. Trust was hard to come by; it was simply the nature of the beast. The fight/spar with the assassi-duo was just stupid now that she looked back on it, but thankfully they seemed to understand the need to vent on a physical level as well as an emotional one, and had deemed it no harm done aside from some light bruising and she was surprised she had even managed that.

When she finally started to yawn and her hand was stopped from tugging at her hair and aggravating the scrape at her temple at least seven times, she admitted that maybe, just maybe, she could sleep. If she happened to admit that it was nice to have people who cared, if only to herself, well, that was no one’s business but her own.

“Are you going to tell us the next time you suspect someone has you in their sights?” Bucky asked after adjusting the IV line so it wouldn't get caught on the bed railing while she slept.

“Probably not,” she admitted around another yawn.

“Good girl, malen’kaya tochka,” Natasha praised.

She fell asleep to the sounds of Bucky and Natasha having a sharply whispered conversation in the Russian both forgot she spoke far more fluently than she let on, and Jane musing about just how much the college fund should be for the three kids who called the number on the back of her badge and gave them a lead. Full ride was damn near guaranteed, but how to plan for the rising cost of books was the issue she was stuck on as if Stark and/or Hydra wouldn't be paying for it regardless.

Darcy decided that, as with most things in her life, wiser minds than her own could figure that out. She just made a mental note to upgrade the kids’ wardrobe options and send them a personal thanks, Underwood style, as soon as she was able. She also made a mental note not to let SHIELD, Stark, or her family recruit them any time soon. Let them be kids for a while, have the childhood she herself barely had.

For now though, she needed to sleep. The morning would involve bickering and blood tests to be erased from the central server, maybe some ice cream and donuts. The night could involve some peace if not quiet and friends at her side.

End.


End file.
